


Rain

by Witchly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dark, Death, Depressing, I am so sorry, M/M, Trigger Warnings, Vent Piece, Wounded, mystery killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 21:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchly/pseuds/Witchly
Summary: It’s always raining in London.





	Rain

It often rained in London.

One could never know when a sudden shower could occur, especially when most days were dismal and dreary. Yet, that didn’t stop the majority of the population from going out and about, sometimes forgetting their umbrellas, not a care in the world if their poor little heads would get ruined from the weather. 

And so it rained.

Nothing of the non natural force could put a stop to it in time. Not words, not prayer, not imagining it disappearing, because in the end it would proceed to rain, each drop would not stop for a single wish, but if it wished so itself by the very clouds it fell from.

So, should rain be the very thing to put Londoners in a halt, would moisture in the sky be their truest downfall.

And so it rained.

Upon the city pavement crashed every drop, pitter-pattering with no specific rhythm. Yet it also soaked through Sherlock Holmes’ most favored coat and scarf, damp, dark curls clinging to his pale forehead. Why bother attempting to become dry and protect oneself from further damage, before one grew ill?

It was so insignificant. Why should that blasted rain be the stalemate in his steps, the ail in his duties? Rain was nothing, it was just water falling from the sky, chilling him in that winter cold, shuddering as he observed opaque become crimson, then near black upon that dirty sidewalk.

It was no true threat compared to what has transpired to this point in time.

Crimson splattered onto the sidewalk with another whooping cough, tainted plush, pink lips struggled to speak in full, coherent sentences. Oh dear, oh dear, how soon is fate, he wondered. He wished it come swift, so the sensation of that burning in his heart could cease, for his consciousness to fade to a final serenity.

James Moriarty slowly blinked up to Sherlock Holmes, his shaky hand caressing his pale, rosy cheeks— also staining it with the very essence that flooded from him quick. It took a few moments before Sherlock realized that the man was brushing away his tears, tears in which, unbeknownst to him, were streaming down his face as a child with a broken toy.

And there it was, that smile.

The one that became his very undoing. Not the smile that knotted his stomach and sent waves of heat through him like an eternal wildfire. No, the smile that made his heart skip a beat, the one that made his heart swell and soar, the one that mended him together when John fled from hope’s once near view.

It was a smile that held the same power, only weaker, and now it provoked a paralyzing abundance of pain instead of the rush of genuine, soft hearted pleasure.

  
  


_ You always feel pain,  _

He knew.

  
  


_ Sherlock,  _

He knew.

_ but you don’t have to fear it.  _

He knew.

“Stop it.”

It was all he could get out in between sobs as he struggled to tend to the frustratingly impossible amount of bleeding, now becoming a sea around them as Sherlock pressed his trembling hand to the wound.

“Stop it now.”

And was it supposed to be a good thing when the rain nearly washed that horrid red from the dirty sidewalk? Who would know, when it symbolized a crime of heart, and the now torturous memory of an irreversible destruction? All was in ruin. All was in ruin and forever it would be.

“Mortality is strange, Sherlock,” Jim spoke as he drifted a bit in and out of wavering consciousness, “it’s the only certainty we have when everything else is uncertain… you can’t chance it when it’s promised.”

“Don’t lecture me with the obvious,” Sherlock was straining himself not to be enraged, “mortality can be overcome under miraculous circumstances— so don’t you dare loosen your grip on me.”

Jim could only faintly laugh now— the bleeding was soaking through the pretty scarf. What a shame Sherlock wasted it on him, he always adored that scarf, now to be tainted with an insufferable recollection of events.

“You’ve done all you can, my dear. It’s real this time, you must understand.” 

“No, no, shut up. They’re on their way. You stay with me, we haven’t finished the game.”

There were tears in Jim’s eyes, though he did not weep as Sherlock did. He just felt bittersweet knowing this would be the last time he’d know the man named Sherlock Holmes.

“Who’s to say the game has not chosen its own end now?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a vent piece for me I’ve decided to write while on the bus to my college classes. I’ll edit it later if I need to. I hope you all enjoy it. I mean, it’s a sad and dark piece, but I hope you enjoy my writing of it. I tend to write these kinds of things sometimes but mostly for personal works of my own.


End file.
